


A Place of Safety

by lyricwritesprose



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Aziraphale and Crowley have accidentally a rebellion, Cages of Our Own Making by DemonicGeek, Gen, Heaven is terrible, Neopronouns, Queer Youth Wish Fulfillment, everything ends happily and hopefully, fic of a fic, nonbinary stuff, outsider pov, queer found family stuff, some suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: This fic is spun off fromCages of Our Own Makingby DemonicGeek, and makes very little sense without having read that story.  Skip the rest of this summary if you don't want spoilers for that fic . . .Aziraphale and Crowley are struggling to find a place for angelic and demonic defectors, and settle on an old hotel as a place to keep them safe and out of sight.  But what happens when humans start to show up, having heard that this place is a place of safety for queer people?
Comments: 35
Kudos: 160
Collections: Good Omens





	A Place of Safety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DemonicGeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicGeek/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cages of Our Own Making](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289328) by [CaspianTheGeek (DemonicGeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicGeek/pseuds/CaspianTheGeek). 



September (pronouns they/them, for now, still very new at this) arrived at the hotel with twenty pounds and the contents of a small backpack, no idea where to else to go, and every chance they would sleep in a park and get arrested if this didn’t work. And being arrested would, sooner or later, entail being sent back to their parents, which was a prospect that made the full bottle of Ibuprofen at the bottom of their backpack sing seductively to them. “I’m sorry,” they stuttered at the old-fashioned man who opened the door, “I’m—they—they said this was a good place for queer people?”

Old-fashioned. Middle aged. The sort of person who disapproved of September. September cringed inwardly, and possibly outwardly.

But instead, the old-fashioned man was getting over his initial look of startlement. “Of course. What’s your name, child? And do you have pronouns you prefer?”

“Um—September.” It was the first time they’d used it in real life. “The name.” Good nonbinary names were thin on the ground, in September’s opinion, so it was a lucky thing their favorite month wasn’t attached to a gender the way April or May were. “And they/them for pronouns, I guess? I’d—I’d rather not use my last name, if that’s all right. It’s sort of distinctive, and my parents—is there a sign-in sheet? Do I have to sign in?”

“No sheet,” the man assured them. “There are reasons not to keep tidy records, especially—well, no need to go into that. You can call me Mr. Fell, and I’ll find you a room. We can sort out everything that needs to be sorted out in the morning. It’s late.”

And that was how September found themself being led to a room on the second floor.

The room matched nothing that September thought of as a hotel room. The bed was a four-poster with a lacy canopy, and the armchairs looked plush and inviting. “We can talk more about how to decorate it later,” Mr. Fell told September. “I’m sure I have some things in, in storage. For now, though, is this all right?”

“It’s beautiful,” September assured him sincerely. “I’ve never had a bed like that.” Their father never would have let them have a bed like that. Too frilly. Too beautiful. _Either man up or I’ll make you man up._

September twitched.

Mr. Fell must have caught the twitch. “You’re safe here,” he said, with palpable sincerity. “I’ll see to it. The other residents—” He seemed to be choosing his words with care. “They’re—an eclectic group. Some you might find disconcerting. But none of them bear you any malice, and I’ll make sure they all know to leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” September said. It came out more desperate-sounding than they meant it to. “I’ve _been_ alone. I’ve been nothing but alone. I want . . .”

“We’ll work it out in the morning,” Mr. Fell assured them, when they didn’t go on. “Have good dreams, September.”

There was a peculiar emphasis to the way he said it.

There was a feeling of safety to the room, and perhaps that was why September genuinely did have good dreams—an actual flying dream, like they hadn’t had since they were a kid. Either way, they woke, dressed in their one alternate outfit, and considered when to venture out and meet the rest of the residents here. And see about breakfast.

Surely the place couldn’t be well-funded enough to provide breakfast.

Their musings were disrupted by a shriek from just outside the room. September dropped the hoodie they were about to put on and rushed for the door.

There was a person—looked like a woman, but September wasn’t going to take that for granted—in a tattered black suit, Southeast Asian-looking, with weird all-black eyes that had to be contacts. And there was a dark-skinned person with hair in long twists and some kind of peculiar makeup across their face—gold paint? It wasn’t even symmetrically applied gold paint, just a scattering from the corner of one eye down to their jawline—

September’s observations were disrupted as Gold Paint threw a vase at Black Eyes. Black Eyes cuffed it aside _mid-air,_ and it shattered against the wall. “I know what you’re thinking,” Gold Paint snarled, “you think I can’t _fight._ Easy pickings.” They had, now that September came to look for it, a wide-based cane. “Think again, demon, I will send you back where you belong—”

Things happened very fast.

As near as September could reconstruct it afterwards, Black Eyes’s hands were suddenly engulfed in fire, and immense black wings sprung into being behind them. Gold Paint took two long, unsteady steps back, but white wings came into being behind _them,_ and the cane transmuted itself into a spear. And Mr. Fell, who September hadn’t even seen, said, _“Stop!”_ in a voice that seemed like it should bring the sun to a halt.

September didn’t stop.

September bolted.

Down the stairs. Down past ground level, down to the basements, lower and lower until the stairs ran out, and then they pushed open the door, which said _No Unauthorized Personnel,_ and stumbled into the dark, not daring to feel for a light switch—

They didn’t have their mobile.

They didn’t have any _light._

They would get lost down here without any light.

They should have bolted out through the lobby. Out onto the street. Why hadn’t they done that?

Besides blind panic, anyway. Instincts that said to hide in a hole, like some tiny, very vulnerable animal—

They felt a door, pushed it open, and discovered, not a maintenance closet, but a bedroom. It was barely larger than September’s room back ho—back at their parents’ house—and it was absolutely jam-packed with _stuff._ The only comparison September could think of was Howl’s room from the Studio Ghibli movie, with all the beads and things dangling from the ceiling. The dresser (which didn’t have a mirror) was covered with large and interesting chunks of rock. September thought maybe they were rough gemstones. There was a rolltop desk with a computer. In the armchair on the far side of the room was a tall, lean person with cascades of brown wavy hair, who started up from the chair as September bolted again, further down the corridor.

“Excuse me!” The voice didn’t sound especially dreadful or terrifying—not like Mr. Fell’s had sounded, upstairs—but September wasn’t about to risk it. They pulled open a door, suppressing a sob of fear, and pushed their way inside.

Groped through the dark, and then desperately stifled a shriek as their hand hit something _hot_ and jerked back.

Boiler room. Or furnace room, or something like that. Something that kept the heat on for the hotel.

The door opened behind them. “Let there be light,” the earlier voice said, and the lights came on—no, not the lights themselves, but a cool blaze from somewhere near the ceiling. “Are you hurt?”

September narrowly avoided pressing themselves back against the boiler.

“You’re hurt. Let me—” The person—the something—with the long brown hair moved forward, and then stopped as September flinched. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see that hand. I work—used to work—in the Incarnations department. If there’s anything I know, it’s bodies.” The person paused, as if to give September a chance to speak, and then went on when they didn’t. “I’m Mattithiah. Ey/em pronouns. I think that’s how we do it. I—you have to understand, I’ve only met a few humans so far. I didn’t know there were any others in the hotel. Did you just come in? I—I’m making a hash of this. I’m sorry. I’ll send for Aziraphale, okay?” Ey pulled a piece of brilliant white paper out of nowhere, wrote on it with a gold pen, and then made it disappear again. “I can leave if you want but you have to promise me that you _won’t go anywhere,_ because I don’t want you to get lost. Will you promise me?”

September nearly promised, and then realized that there was every chance Mattithiah could detect lies. “If—” they choked out. “If you’ve only met a few humans, what does that make _you?”_

“I’m an angel. I’m not going to hurt you.”

September laughed. It had an edge of hysteria to it. “If you were an angel, you would _kill_ me.” Or change them into something they weren’t. Something more like their father wanted.

September thought of the bottle of Ibuprofen in the backpack upstairs, and realized that they had left it upstairs. Everything they needed to run with, out of reach.

Mattithiah looked shocked. “Why would I do that?”

“Because if angels are real, then Heaven is real, and if Heaven is real, God is real, and if God is real, _God hates me.”_

“Heaven is real,” Mattithiah said promptly, “and God is real, and I don’t see how it follows that She hates you. There’s a lot—” Ey rubbed eir head. “There’s a lot I don’t have settled in my mind yet. And it doesn’t help that God hasn’t actually talked to me since I was created. I’m not that special, as angels go. Everything that’s different about me is something _wrong_ with me. But I’m not clear on God’s role in—in anything, really—and whatever it is that you’ve done—you haven’t killed another human, have you?”

“No!”

“Oh, good.”

“It’s not about what I’ve done,” September said. “I haven’t _done_ anything. Except not measure up. Be a disappointment. It’s about what I _am.”_

_Everything that’s different about me is something wrong with me._

That—that hit September somewhere under the breastbone, a punch of familiarity.

Mattithiah hesitated, and then clicked eir fingers. September jumped as a set of richly upholstered chairs came into being, one next to Mattithiah, one next to September. Mattithiah sat down in the one nearest to em. “Me, too.”

“How can an angel be a disappointment?” September demanded.

Mattithiah shrugged. “Agoraphobic.”

September didn’t know what to say to that. They sat down in the chair, very gingerly. _Everything that’s different about me is something wrong with me._

“It’s why I like it down here. No windows. But angels aren’t supposed to have defects like that, and so everyone tends to assume that I’m doing it _on purpose._ How can a human be a disappointment? Aren’t you all _supposed_ to be different?”

“If I tell you,” September said, “do you promise not to smite me or anything?”

“I can promise not to smite you,” Mattithiah said. “I don’t think I can promise _or anything._ That’s, I mean, that’s _anything._ I still want a look at that hand. I—”

The door opened behind em.

It was Mr. Fell. September jumped up and realized again that there was nowhere to back away to.

“Oh, good,” Mattithiah said, with real relief.

“Dreadfully sorry about that,” Mr. Fell said, to September. He sounded entirely normal—or, at least, he sounded the way he had sounded last night, fussy and precise. “Not all our guests are acclimatized yet. You weren’t hurt in the fight, were you?”

“Wait, there was a fight?” Mattithiah said, voice rising.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Mr. Fell said, “Gemory, who arrived last night shortly after September here, realized that he hadn’t seen an angel since the Fall, and wanted a better look at one. Being somewhat too intimidated to spy on me, he unfortunately chose Erubey, who was rooming right next to September. The conflict drew September out into the hall. Everything’s all right now. Gemory apologized to Erubey. Erubey decided to introduce Gemory to bacon quiche and pineapple, by way of a peace offering, and they’re both having a somewhat nonstandard breakfast in the dining hall. So the only thing left to sort out is September here.”

“I’ll go,” September managed. “I just need my backpack—never mind, I don’t even need my backpack, I’ll just—” Just what? Shoplift food? They had never done it before. And stay where? And do what with themself? And get caught, and get sent home to their family, and—

Shoplift a bottle of ibuprofen, maybe. Exit strategy.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Mr. Fell asked, as if reading September’s mind. Maybe he could. Maybe he was.

“No, but—”

“Then it seems best,” Mr. Fell went on calmly, “that you stay here. We can provide food, clothes—whatever you need. The only problem—well, the only problem would be our clientele.”

“Angels,” September said, mouth dry.

“And demons,” Mr. Fell agreed. “Both sets of entities on the run from systems that rather crush individuality, even if they do it in different ways. My husband and I seem to have inadvertently started a bit of a shake-up. And _that_ means that sooner or later, someone may show up at our door with ill intent. When it happens, we’ll get you out, of course. But I realize that you may not choose to stay with us. I can give you money, if you want to go someplace else. Money isn’t a problem for any of us.”

“You’re rebelling against _Heaven,”_ September realized. “That’s why you call yourself ‘Fell.’ Because—” They had a sudden surge of terror as they realized what sort of being might use the name _Fell,_ and exactly who Mr. Fell might be.

“He’s not Fallen,” Mattithiah said, contradicting September’s half-formed conclusion. “At least, I don’t think he’s Fallen. I mean, they say—” Ey glanced at Mr. Fell. “They say a lot of things, actually."

"Some of them may even be true," Mr. Fell said. "No, my name, my _proper_ name, is Aziraphale. I've always used something similar as an alias. In this case, A. Z. Fell. And I wouldn't call this a rebellion, exactly, but if it is, it's against Heaven and Hell both. Have you had breakfast yet?”

September shook their head numbly.

“Right then, that’s obviously the first thing to take care of. Mattithiah, you take September to the break room and get them settled, would you? I’ll find you some breakfast,” he added to September, “and—Mattithiah, do you want anything?”

“Eric said something about milkshakes?” Mattithiah said. “That might help me get used to it. The whole—mouth thing.”

“You don’t have to get used to it, you know,” Mr. Fell—Aziraphale—said. “It’s not required.”

“I _want_ to,” Mattithiah said. “I want to get used to Earth. I want to know what everyone else enjoys so much. It’s just—the chewing.”

“You could always do what Crowley does, with eggs,” Aziraphale said, “but I suspect he’s doing something not entirely recommended with the muscles of his throat. At any rate, back in a tick.”

He left.

“Um,” Mattithiah said, after a moment. “Do you want to—come on up to the break room? It’s in the basement right above this one. Apparently it was for the humans who used to make this hotel function. And it doesn’t have any windows, so it’s less tense for me than the bit that used to be the restaurant. I mean, you could go on up to the restaurant if you want, I’m _fine,_ I lived with those big windows in Heaven for millenia—or I don’t have to come up at all, you’re probably more comfortable with Aziraphale.”

“Not really,” September said fervently. They were over their panic and moving towards absolutely rational icy dread. They were in a hotel full of people _with supernatural powers._ People who had every reason to find September inconvenient. People who could make things appear. Very possibly people who could make September disappear.

They had to get out of here. Which meant they had to avoid making anyone angry.

“Yeah,” Mattithiah said, “honestly, me too. He’s nice, but if you listen to any of the rumors in the last few months, he’s also absolutely terrifying, and nobody even knows what he _is_ anymore. But he doesn’t want to hurt us, so hang onto that. Come on, I’ll show you to the break room.”

And if an _angel_ thought Aziraphale was absolutely terrifying . . . “Rumors?” September said, dry-mouthed.

“Well, at about the time that the world was ending—”

_“What?”_

“I mean, it didn’t. You probably noticed. That it didn’t. But we were all mustering for war, even angels like Erubey who can’t really fight anymore, and the people who were _there_ say that Aziraphale refused, jumped back to Earth without a body, _made_ a body somehow without the Incarnations department—that’s my department, I know that’s not possible—and did something to the Antichrist and stopped Armageddon. Aziraphale says that the Antichrist did it himself. But that’s where all the rumors break down, you see, because they _say_ that the Archangels had a punishment planned for him, and that he laughed at them and walked out, and you can’t _do_ that.” Mattithiah dropped eir voice. _“Some_ people said that they tried to burn him in Hellfire. And he survived. Not just survived. Laughed at it.”

They were, September thought, missing the context to say exactly how terrifying this made Aziraphale. Mattithiah seemed to find it impressive, though. And Mattithiah was terrifying eirself, so . . .

Except that it was difficult to remember that Mattithiah was supposed to be terrifying. “Terrifying” did not go well with “chatty and slightly awkward.”

“That was about the time,” Mattithiah said, “that I started wondering if there was something else. Something besides being miserable and tense all the time. And I talked to the wrong angel about it, because next thing I knew they were telling me to report for disciplinary procedures, and I remembered the rumors about Hellfire and I panicked, and then everyone was chasing me, and I crashed through the skylight here. How about you? I always thought that humans could do pretty much as they liked.”

“Not when we’re children,” September said.

Mattithiah turned around and blinked at them. “I thought children were—smaller. And that humans had to carry them around.”

“That’s babies,” September said. “There’s a—sort of continuum. From babies, which are about so big and can’t even talk or walk yet, to someone like me, who’s almost sixteen, but I won’t be an adult until eighteen, if I even _survive_ that long.”

“What does it mean, being sixteen?”

“Years. Sixteen years old.”

 _“Oh.”_ Mattithiah seemed to be thinking about this. “That’s not much.”

“Yeah.” September thought about the odds of reaching seventeen. “Not much.”

“So why did you come here?”

September thought about the whole sordid story. “I ran away from home.”

“Well, we have that in common, anyway,” Mattithiah said. “Why?”

“I’m not a man,” September said.

“Okay . . .”

“And my father was talking about shipping me away to a military academy so that they’ll _make_ me a man, and I’d rather die.”

Mattithiah thought about that. “Isn’t that painful? Dying?”

“Painful, permanent—until today I didn’t even know that something might _survive,_ I thought I’d just _go out—”_ September took a deep breath. “Yeah. I don’t want to die.”

“So what you’re saying is, your father was going to do something to you, and you’d rather face Hellfire,” Mattithiah translated.

“I guess that is what I’m saying.”

They had reached the break room. Mattithiah turned around. “Well, where are they!”

“What?”

“This father person! Where are they? I mean, I don’t _like_ going outside, but I’ll take a few of us, and—actually, forget a few of _us,_ I’ll ask _Crowley._ They say Prince Beelzebub is scared of him, and they say he has _imagination._ We’ll soon see about this ‘military academy’ thing—”

“It’s not,” September stuttered, “it’s not—it’s not worth it.” They felt a bit dizzy. And it wasn’t with fear.

“What’s not worth it?” That was a young man with bizarre hair and heavy mascara. Or—September supposed they must not be human. Demon, or angel? They weren’t dressed like either of the ones upstairs, having on a purple silk shirt and a sort of scarf-lanyard business knotted loosely around their neck.

“September, this is Eric,” Mattithiah said. “He/him. Eric, this is September, they/them. Eric, September’s father was trying to do something awful to them, and they would rather be destroyed completely, and _I_ think we should do something about it.”

“Yeah,” Eric said, “we should. They should stay here.” He pulled out a chair for September, across from where he had been eating a truly remarkable stack of pancakes. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Aziraphale was getting some,” Mattithiah said. Eric’s eyebrows rose. “September knows about us. Someone got in a fight upstairs. It sounds like a big misunderstanding; I think Erubey thought that they were after er.”

Eric grimaced. “Erubey is paranoid about all us demons.”

“It’s because e can’t fight,” Mattithiah said. “Took a bad wound in the War, and e’s been unsteady on er feet ever since. That’s why several of us defected, you know—not because we ever thought we’d like demons, but because Heaven doesn’t have much use for a defective angel and there had to be _something_ better than being treated like that.” Mattithiah apparently realized that might be insulting. “I mean, that’s not to say I don’t like demons. I do! I like you a lot more than I expected. I mean—that is to say—”

Eric smiled. “It’s okay. I didn’t ever expect to like angels, until I talked to Aziraphale. Are you having breakfast, Mattithiah?”

“Aziraphale was getting me a milkshake,” Mattithiah said.

Eric’s eyes lit up. “Did you ask for chocolate?”

“No . . .”

“You should definitely ask for chocolate.”

“Is that the brown stuff that comes in mugs and burns your tongue?”

“Yes, but a milkshake is cold, not hot, so you should be fine.” Eric sat down again and took a fork to his pancakes. “Ever had a milkshake, September?” Before September could answer, Eric corrected himself. “Never mind, of course you have, you’ve eaten food all your life. You’ve probably had all the kinds there are.”

“Not every kind,” September managed, sitting down. “I don’t think I’ve ever had Pad Thai.”

“Is that a breakfast food, or a lunch food, or a dinner food?” Mattithiah asked.

“Dinner, I think.”

“I’ll see if Warlock knows where to find some,” Eric promised.

“There’s a warlock, too?” September said.

“That’s their name,” Eric explained. “Because they weren’t the Antichrist.”

“I’m not sure I get it.”

“Long story. You see . . .”

Eric was halfway through the long story by the time that Aziraphale returned with a full English breakfast, a milkshake, Gemory, and Erubey. “We’re sorry we frightened you,” Erubey said. “It wasn’t Gemory’s fault. I just panicked. Are you all right?”

September was, in fact, having trouble maintaining the level of abject terror the situation seemed to call for. Yes, they were surrounded by immensely powerful supernatural beings, but—they were surrounded by immensely powerful supernatural beings who took it as read that September’s family was in the wrong, and that they were going to protect September one way or another, whether that way was sheltering September at the hotel or going to September’s house with whatever angels used for a pack of mates and a spiked bat. It was—friendly. It was _welcoming._

“I think I’m fine,” September said, and wasn’t completely lying.

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale beamed at them.

As the day went on, September struggled with the same feeling. They were afraid. They were still afraid. But they were also welcomed.

They got into a long, impassioned conversation on clothes with Mattithiah and Gemory. Gemory, apparently, had done some time in Deals, which was a real department of Hell, and had at one point owned a lovely velvet dress and a crown to impress the humans. Gemory _liked_ dresses, and was interested to see what “human nobility” had come up with in the time since he had last been summoned. Mattithiah hadn’t given much thought to clothes, having simply repaired the ones that were ruined when ey crashed through the skylight, but ey wondered aloud if ey might be able to find clothes on eir computer, and so the three of them ended up in Mattithiah’s room downstairs, watching fashion shows.

After the third time Gemory conjured a dress he saw, September summoned up their courage and asked, “Are those coming _from_ anywhere, or are you just—making them?”

“I was taking them,” Gemory said. “Why? Do you think I should make them instead?”

“Probably best,” Mattithiah said. “Adam was explaining it to me the other day. There’s a limited amount of _stuff,_ and the humans have complicated exchange rituals to make sure that you don’t take stuff that isn’t yours, because they can’t just miracle it when it goes missing.”

As Gemory gradually accumulated dresses, Mattithiah asked September if they would like one.

“I don’t know,” September admitted. “It’s scary.”

“Why is it scary?”

“Because I’m supposed to be a boy, and boys aren’t supposed to wear dresses. I mean, I suppose some _do—_ Eddie Izzard—does he identify as nonbinary now, though? But I—I would have been punished, if I’d ever put on something like that, and—”

“Still think we should take some people by your father’s place,” Mattithiah muttered.

“I’m close enough to male,” Gemory pointed out, “and I am—what was it Eric said? Rocking this look? I am rocking this look.” He twirled, making the dress billow out around him. “So you can too.”

September decided not to point out that there was no way Gemory would read as male to anyone who didn’t know his pronouns. Especially not with that dress. Especially not with that cleavage, which the dress was enhancing. “I don’t know. The thing is, I don’t know how I actually want to look. What I want to be. I look in the mirror and my mind says, _not this,_ but I don’t know how to get where I want. I’m not sure this high fashion thing is for me, anyway. Ideally—ideally, I’d wear jeans, and a casual blouse, and some makeup, and my hair grown out long—”

Mattithiah clicked eir fingers. There was a sudden weight on September’s scalp.

September jumped, feeling the fear from earlier surge back. Surrounded by people who could _do things_ to them, could _change_ them, could do anything they wanted—

“Sorry,” Mattithiah said, looking concerned. “Not good?”

“I just—” September was having a hard time with air. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t change things about my body without asking.” Polite, be polite. Reflexive defense, that.

“All right. I’ll remember. I’m sorry, I just thought, bodies are my specialty . . .” Mattithiah shook eir head. “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Do you want it gone?”

September stroked their hand over the long hair. “No, I—I like it. I just—I mean, I don’t like—I’d prefer it if you didn’t—”

“Change things without asking,” Mattithiah completed. “I won’t.”

By the time they got to what Aziraphale referred to as “orientation with Adam,” Gemory had helpfully miracled September a blouse that they would never have been allowed to wear before, white with flowers on it. It left them shaky, but new-feeling.

“Hi,” a dark-haired American person said to September, “I’m Warlock. And I want you to know, before anything else, if you can’t take this bunch, _it’s okay to bail._ How are you holding up?”

“Really,” September said, “really, _really_ disoriented.”

“Yeah. That happens.”

“I keep bouncing—” September looked at Gemory, talking animatedly to Adam, and lowered their voice. “I keep bouncing between, _these people don’t mind about me,_ and _these people could drop me into the sun with a gesture._ I don’t know which to go with.”

Warlock grimaced. “I think you have to decide that for yourself. But if it helps, everyone here is a misfit of one sort or another. That’s got to help a little bit.”

“It does,” September admitted. “I just—the world is not the same _shape_ as it was when I woke up.”

“Can’t be totally bad, though,” Warlock pointed out. “It sounds like you were on the run when you woke up. A small horde of supernatural friends, that can’t hurt.”

Friends. That was what September had been struggling with all morning. The growing feeling that Mattithiah and Gemory and Eric—and even Erubey and Aziraphale—were friends.

“It’s been a long time since I had friends,” September admitted.

“Well—you have some now. So start thinking what to do about it.”

September thought about it for the rest of the day.

They could run.

Increasingly, they didn’t want to run.

They wanted to eat takeout Pad Thai with Eric and Mattithiah and Gemory down in the break room.

They wanted to continue to explain gendered clothing to Gemory, admitting along the way that it didn’t make very much sense.

They wanted to get to know Erubey. And Warlock, and Adam. And even Aziraphale and his husband Crowley, who September had seen briefly, slinking around wearing designer shades. Crowley had studied September through the dark glasses, said, “If you bolt, there’s a thousand pounds in your bag. Don’t you _dare_ thank me. I’m just making life easier for Aziraphale.” And he had stalked off, apparently having said everything he wanted to say.

September had found him intimidating. But they had checked the bag later, and found a thousand pounds, in worn, non-sequential fifty pound notes. Crowley, September thought, wanted them to have a choice. A real choice.

Even considering that money meant nothing to these people, nobody did things like that for September.

Which was why September—continued not to bolt. And went down to the break room to eat takeout Pad Thai. And talked about rock collecting with Mattithiah. And tried to explain money to Gemory, who thought that if most people kept money in banks, all a human had to do was rob the banks, and he already had some ideas about how to go about it.

It was late, and September was on their way up to their room, when they were caught in the lobby by Aziraphale. “September! How are you doing? Is there anything you need? I think we can see to most of it very easily, although I still maintain that food tastes better when it’s cooked rather than miracled.”

“I’m—actually really good,” September confessed. “Everyone has been _nice.”_

“Some of the demons are touchy about that word,” Aziraphale told them. “But very capable of it nonetheless. You’re getting on all right with Gemory, then? Crowley says that Gemory used to have a very low opinion of humanity, being summoned all the time by rather dreadful men who were hoping he could make someone fall in love with them—apparently they thought that because Gemory _looked_ like their idea of a woman, he had _power_ over women, which would have to leave someone with a rather jaded view of human nature. But he seems to be fitting in well so far . . .”

The door to the lobby banged open.

The person in the door was shorter than September, and looked like they had cut their hair in the dark, with very little idea of what haircut they wanted (besides “short”) or possibly what scissors were.

“Human,” Aziraphale murmured to September.

The person’s voice was high-pitched, a combination of belligerent and nervous. “I heard this was where gay kids can go.”

“Among many, many others,” Aziraphale said. “What’s your name, my dear? And your pronouns?”

“I’m Brianna, I’m a girl, and I’m not your dear,” the girl retorted. “I’m just looking for a place to sleep tonight. That’s it. If you don’t have that, I can go.”

“Of course you can sleep here tonight,” Aziraphale said. “And as long as you need to.”

“Look,” September said, “Brianna? I’m September. They/them. Listen—I should probably explain some things to you. About this place.” How? How to explain the impossible truth—what’s more, how to explain that it _wasn’t a bad thing?_ That whatever Brianna had been through, she didn’t have to be afraid? That she was welcome? “It isn’t what you’d call your average hotel . . .”

**Author's Note:**

> Gemory is a “real” demon, described in demonological works such as the _Lesser Key of Solomon_ as appearing in the form of a beautiful woman wearing a duchess’s crown and riding a camel. Because of this, I decided that the camel was Gemory’s demonic animal (they can’t all be cool like snakes) and that his eyes were all black, like a camel’s eyes. Gemory is always referred to as “he” in the grimoires, and I decided that given his appearance and the unenlightened attitudes of the Middle Ages, he must have been pretty firm on that point to make it stick. In demonological works, Gemory is supposed to be able to reveal hidden treasure and “procure love from women.” It’s an open question whether “procuring love from women,” involved pointed advice about washing, going outside, and talking to them rather than intoning incantations in a basement somewhere, but I suspect that Gemory would find modern incels to be unpleasantly familiar.
> 
> As for Gemory’s gender presentation, I decided that he is entirely out of fucks to give about what humans think is appropriate attire, and if he decides he likes Paris women’s haute couture (he does), he’s going to wear it. He may be in for a nasty surprise when he actually has to _move_ in the stuff, but that’s for later.
> 
> Erubey is an angel name taken from the list of Enochian angels. Over half of the Enochian angel names are completely unpronounceable or ridiculous-sounding, but every once in a while you hit one that’s odd enough to be unique, but not something like Fmnd (which is really in there). There isn’t much information on most of the angels in the Enochian list.


End file.
